Tides of the Moon
by Berrirose
Summary: Nobody knew who Oz was, even after he committed suicide. Gilbert Nightray is a man who's recently moved into the house where the boy's spirit dwells. But when they both get caught up in the web of Oz's past, will it push them apart or pull them together? AU. Rewritten.


_Summary: Nobody knew who Oz was, even after he committed suicide. Gilbert Nightray is a man who's recently moved into the house where the boy's spirit dwells. But when they both get caught up in the web of Oz's past, will it push them apart or pull them together? AU. Rewritten._

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A small grey house with a mere two storeys. On its front spreads a lawn of dirt-kissed weeds and shriveled grass. The brick-paved pathway leading up to the front door is touched in the first time in months by the hard grind of combat boots and the silent wandering of flashlights.

Inside the house, the late afternoon sunlight still filtered in from the smallest cracks in the carefully-pulled curtains, hungrily seeking for any lock of hair to shine alongside, any ice-kissed drink to warm, or playful shadow to give life to but only meeting the still, cobwebbed silence of the empty house.

When the priorly contacted landlord opened up the front door, they policemen outside were blown back by the foul stench that spilled out of the house, climbing up nostrils and robbing several of a few moments worth of peaceful breath. It was just as the local had reported.

For the first time in months, the dormant house came alive with the cautious shadows of unknown visitors. The stench grew stronger as a few of them ventured up the stairs, leading them to a small room – the only one – on the second floor.

And then they found him.

As expected, his body had already decomposed by a considerable amount; most of his flesh rotted to the bone and devoured by pests.

The days that followed were as insignificant as any other. There was no funeral held, no investigation request bothered to be written up – though, if anything, he was graced with a full half-column article in a daily newspaper that'd run its sources dry.

He was soon forgotten only days after he was discovered, and the quaint, two-storey house slowly receded back into its previous emptiness.

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_Chapter 1: Perishable_

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It's a rainy summer day as the once blindingly yellow sun hangs behind the cover of a grey, overcast sky. The grey silhouettes of bare trees look menacing against the sky's dark backdrop as he makes his way down the road – the lone, flickering light of a small convenience store being the only thing close to a sense of direction amongst a uniform sea of red-roofed houses.

Inside the store, the door slides open with a small puff of air and an unintelligible hiss crackles from a nearby speaker. And in steps a man soaked to the bone in the fresh midsummer downpour – allowing anyone who cared to squint a hazy outline of features through his modest amount of clothing. He glances to his side, dutifully grabbing a small basket and walking into the aisles, barely managed to keep his breath even.

After picking out half a dozen cans of local soda, he proceeds to the checkout – where he instantly realizes that he's nowhere near acknowledged.

"–dn't hear about it?" The young lady's voice is trembling with what was either unkempt excitement or fear, balled hands raised up, and eyes glinting with the striking subtlety of anticipation. "Liam was foolish enough to stumble upon that house again. He said he saw it again, staring out of the window, covered in blood and centipedes!"

"Oh?" Amusedly, her albino companion chuckles, swaying happily on the mop handle he's resting his chin on. "No wonder the neighbors reported a woman's shriek to the police yesterday;" he lilted, no ill-intent present in his voice despite the words they spoke, "he's such a baby."

"B-Break! He fainted in the middle o–" She stops as she notices the rain-soaked man standing on the other side of the counter. She half-contemplates the idea of smacking her taller peer for not informing her earlier (upon seeing the knowing smile on his face) but decides to save it for later. "I-I'm sorry sir . . . that'll be seven hundred fifty."

Aware of the man's presence but not remotely _close_ to caring about it, the janitor continues their adjourned conversation. "I heard someone moved in there a few days ago, he's pretty dumb if you ask me." And for a split second, the soaked man swore he felt a pair of eyes on him.

"Really? – Here you are sir – They must've been unaware of its reputation; the landowner's been trying to avoid it from spreading for a decade, nobody would buy it after all. Only an fool would buy such a hou–"

The man walks back through the store's door and back into the hailing downpour, spending the next several minutes running and twisting through the empty streets that sprawled out from it.

_That 'fool' . . . do they mean me?_

He stops in front of a small, two-storey house. Despite the crawling ivy and painstakingly obvious patches of peeling paint, it looks like a quaint abode. Walking over the worn, cobblestone path, he stands in front of the front door and takes out his key - shielded from the rain by the small ceiling jutting out above him.

. . . _And that ghost they mentioned, would that be–_

"Welcome back home, Gil!"

Gilbert flinches at the unfamiliar colloquialism, staring down at the young boy in front of him. He's fifteen years old - or at least he _claimed_ to be - and sports a perpetual outfit of a plain white oxford shirt and pair of checkered brown shorts. Looking up at him through his disheveled sunshine hair, he smiles at him with an intensity the man just can't get quite accustomed to.

"Did you have a nice trip?" he asks, his smile reaching all the way to the lilt in his words.

_He looks nothing like the cashier described._

"More or less." He puts down the bag in favor of slipping off his now-saturated shoes. "I'm going to go take a shower. Help yourself, Oz."

Teeming with delight, the boy jumps into the air - and just as Gilbert expected, his feet never touched the ground. As if swimming through the air, he floats over to the bag, fiddling with its plastic straps and immediately pulling out a bright orange can and clicking it open.

"Try not to make a mess," Gilbert mumbles as he walks past the ghost. Hearing a hum of agreement from behind him, he wastes no time walking up the stairs, grabbing a fresh pair of clothes from the closet and slipping into the bathroom with a soft _thump_.

After chugging down his refreshment and setting it back down on the floor, Oz heaves out a refreshed sigh, laying back in the air and basking in the afterglow of satisfaction. He's only recently gotten used to the taste of softdrinks - or any form of nourishment, as a matter of fact - so he intends to savor every last bit of it.

After a silent rumination of whether or not to mess with the water temperature while his mortal companion takes a shower - but deciding against it at the last moment - Oz flips over, gaze locked on the front door he presumably drifted away from while drinking.

He drifts towards it, eyes wide and arms outstretched–

Abruptly, his body stops with his fingers centimeters away from the door's surface.

"Oh well," Oz sighs, withdrawing his hand with a soft smile and an extinguished hope. "Not today either, huh?"

.

"Hey, Oz," Gilbert began, voice cautious as if teetering off the edge of a cliff, "how did you die?"

They're sitting in an empty room, the plastic bag from dozens of minutes ago sitting empty in the corner - along with a small pile of aluminum cans (which the gold-eyed man made a mental note to clean up later) and a raised mattress. The man is now - for the most part - dry, a small towel draped over his shoulders to catch the droplets of water from his damp hair.

The ghost lets out a small burp, followed by a small, apologetic chuckle. Thumbs fiddling with the blue can in his hands, he looks down in a trance of thought. "I don't have any memories from that time . . . but I do remember seeing myself as a ghost."

"How was it?" he found himself saying out of pure curiosity, "I m-mean you don't have to say if you don't want to b–"

"It's fine, Gil," interjects Oz, peppering his words with a soft smile of reassurance. Smile fading, he lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes trained on the ceiling above his head, "really . . . it's fine." He pauses for a moment. "I was stabbed multiple times, right in chest it seemed."

". . . Do you know who did it?"

At that, Oz looks to the side. "I was holding the knife, actually."

And at that, Gilbert falls silent. "Oh."

"So I guess I killed myself, and woke up the next day remembering only my name and age," he continues, face bending into an expression Gilbert couldn't quite place a name to, "I bet I had the stupidest look on my face when I saw myself like that, huh?"

Stomach churning, Gilbert sets down his drink with a shuddered breath. He doesn't know what he expected, in all honesty, but he'd always had the smallest suspicion that what he'd just listened to is what occurred. "Do you think you'll ever . . ." _Disappear? Pass on?_

"Aw, does Gil want me to stay with him?" He chuckles at the man's flustered expression, and he notices the relax of his shoulders soon afterward. "Well, I don't really know that either."

Silence.

Gilbert looked down at his unfinished soda can, at a loss of what to say. Dealing with situations such as these wasn't exactly his forte. He's simply a run-down who managed to score an amazingly cheap house near the catering shop he managed to get a job in.

". . . But," Oz cuts in, completely destroying whatever train of thought Gilbert possessed, "if anything, I sorta glad things turned up like this - that way I got to meet you." And he smiled, a wide, heartwarming smile as he looked on the verge of tears. "Thanks a lot, Gil."

Whether or not he's blushing is something he's unsure of, but what he is sure of is the burning heat that rose in his cheeks. "Y-You're welcome."

Oz laughs, kicking himself into the air and floating across the room to grab the last can of unopened soda. "Cheers!" he shouts, opening the can and raising it high in the air.

Gilbert chuckles, picking up the can beside him and returning the gesture. "Cheers."

By the sound of it, the rain finally stopped, giving way to a beautiful orange sunset.

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_A/N: It's been around two years since I wrote this, and I've decided to continue it – but before I can be anywhere near satisfied with continuing the story, I'll have to rewrite it. The second chapter will come soon, but don't expect it until 2014. Until then, happy holidays ^_^_


End file.
